


Where the Wild Things Are

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Bad Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, F/M, Infidelity, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, Mental Health Issues, Seduction, Self-Esteem Issues, brandon is a douche, but mostly just, oh lysa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 03:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12356205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: The wild wolf, they call him. For the first time Lysa realises how very odd it is that he's been matched with Cat. Because there is nothing wild about Cat, not in the slightest; she is all honour and duty, like their septa taught them. Cat would make herself be happy no matter who they wed her to. In truth, Lysa has always thought of herself as the wild one, thought there is something aching in her chest longing to be freed, although she knows she has never really done anything about it. Still: sometimes she stands in the Trident and feels the current rushing past, threatening to wipe her away, but she is never afraid. She is not afraid because she is the river, she is the water, strong and dangerous and uncontrollable, powerful.Brandon Stark is from a land of ice, not of water, but she feels like he might understand.





	Where the Wild Things Are

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Brandon/Lysa, she's heard things about Brandon Stark."
> 
> This I started writing ages ago, like last April, before forgetting about it for months and then deciding to finish it in the last two days. *shrug* Also I'm doing that thing where I make crack pairings really depressing again.

The wild wolf, they call him. He is so handsome, her sister's betrothed, although it might be wrong of her to be so aware of it. But still, every woman in Riverrun says it, so how great a sin can it be for Lysa to merely think it? They all say how lucky Cat is. Cat, being Cat, seems to think of the politics above all else, thanking Father for making her such a good match – if she has noticed how alluring her betrothed is, she has not said so, although Lysa doesn't think Cat would ever dare speak of such a thing aloud. Still, she should not be jealous: Father planned to marry her to Jaime Lannister after all, and even now that match is off the table, she's sure he will find her a similar man, young and brave and dashing and beautiful. She's sure he will. She trusts her father.  
  
Cat is dancing with old Lord Mallister while her betrothed is whispering in a serving girl's ear. Lysa winces to see that. They say Brandon Stark is a womaniser, that he's taken half the maidenheads in the North, but Lysa's sure it must be rumour and gossip – she can't see Cat putting up with that.  
  
If it bothers Cat, she does not show it, although Cat never shows her feelings – she is too busy dancing and charming. Lysa does her best not to pout. Someone's son did do her the courtesy of asking for the first dance, but she's mostly been forgotten tonight, supping a third cup of wine – Father should not allow that, but he is distracted – whilst all crowd around the bride to be.  _I am almost as pretty as she is, and I am still available,_  she thinks, pouting more.  
  
Across the room she spots Petyr, who watches Cat with pining eyes. A flicker of pity crosses her heart. They have always been close, her and Petyr, the forgotten daughter and the not-quite-son – but he does not feel about her how he does about Cat, she realises. Cat danced with him earlier, maybe her third or fourth dance, as lovely as ever – and really, Lysa thinks that was cruel of her, because she must know how Petyr feels about her. How could she ever not? And she's ignored him since. Part of her considers going over to ask Petyr to dance, but no, it is not the lady's place to do such things. Why doesn't he come dance with her?  
  
She's so distracted she jumps when she feels a hand upon her shoulder. A chuckle emanates from behind her, rich and deep and throaty, and she turns to see Brandon Stark himself. “Forgive me, my lady, I didn't mean to startle you.”  
  
Lysa attempts to come up with some sort of response before her tongue twists in her mouth and a blush rises to her cheeks.  _Great, now he thinks me a half-wit._  “I-it's alright. My lord,” she mumbles, not meeting his eye.  
  
“...Are you alright?” She looks up then, surprised.  _Why would you ask me that?_  “I just saw you across the room, and you looked rather lonely. I thought, as your future brother by law, I shouldn't let that stand.”  
  
Her blush deepens.  _He noticed I was lonely?_  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to look so – so–”  
  
He laughs again, disbelieving, and Lysa feels dread flicker in her heart.  _Does he think me stupid?_  “It's no fault of yours, my lady. Indeed, I'd say it does a disservice to Riverrun to leave such a pretty girl neglected.”  
  
 _Oh. He doesn't think I'm stupid, he thinks I'm pretty._  That only makes Lysa blush deeper, and she must look like a red pepper by now. “I mean, they're all a little preoccupied,” she mutters, eyes drifting over to Cat dancing. “Shouldn't you be with her?”  
  
Brandon shrugs that aside. “I think she's managing alright on her own.” And he's right, Lysa realises, and really, she knows most of the men here are men she and Lysa have known since childhood, but still, there's almost something untoward about the fact Cat is spending so much time with them, and not with her betrothed. “I think she'd rather I keep an eye on you.”  
  
Lysa can't explain the knot of feelings in her heart. She knows Cat does her best not to let her sister feel ignored, when she notices she might – it's just she doesn't notice very often.  _I don't need her pity,_  Lysa thinks bitterly, but perhaps she does?  
  
“Anyway: would you like to dance, Lady Tully?”  
  
 _Lady Tully._  Cat is always called Lady Tully, ever since she was eight years old, a woman of a great house before she'd even bled. Lysa is always just Lysa, never as good as Cat, never as important as Edmure, always just there. She breaks into giggles all of a sudden.  _He'll think I'm a fool_ , but when Brandon laughs along with her, she doesn't feel like he does.  
  
“Yes. I would.” He grins and takes her by the hand, leading her onto the floor, and if Cat notices, if Petyr notices, if anyone does, Lysa doesn't think to check. She's never been such a good dancer as Cat, but Brandon doesn't look disappointed. In his arms, Lysa dances better than she ever has, twisting and turning, and she almost falls once when he dips her slightly, but his strong arms are there to catch her. “Careful, my lady.”  
  
The wild wolf, they call him. For the first time Lysa realises how very odd it is that he's been matched with Cat. Because there is nothing wild about Cat, not in the slightest; she is all honour and duty, like their septa taught them. Cat would make herself be happy no matter who they wed her to. In truth, Lysa has always thought of herself as the wild one, thought there is something aching in her chest longing to be freed, although she knows she has never really done anything about it. Still: sometimes she stands in the Trident and feels the current rushing past, threatening to wipe her away, but she is never afraid. She is not afraid because she is the river, she is the water, strong and dangerous and uncontrollable, powerful.  
  
Brandon Stark is from a land of ice, not of water, but she feels like he might understand.  
  


* * *

  
Brandon leaves her after that dance, but it takes a while for his warmth and strength to follow him, and perhaps they never really do – Lysa stays with a flush upon her cheeks and a giggle ready to break from her mouth the rest of the evening. She does get to dance more and more, as Cat starts to grow weary, but none of them quite live up to him.  
  
It is not until the feast is all but over, when Cat has already retired to her chambers, pressing a chaste kiss to her betrothed's cheek, that he approaches her again. “Lady Tully,” he smiles, and Lysa smiles back.  
  
“Lord Stark,” she says, as proper and composed as any lady in the Seven Kingdoms, not a giggling little girl anymore. “I trust you have enjoyed your evening?”  
  
“Oh yes, very much so,” he grins. She grins back. “I was hoping to ask you a favour actually.”  
  
“Hmm? What is it?”  
  
He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. “It's a little embarrassing, actually,” he says. “I've had maybe a cup more wine than was sensible, and I seem to have forgotten where my chambers are. I don't want to bother your father with it, and I really don't want to bother Cat.”  
  
“Of course not.” It might cause a scandal, after all, if the infamous wild wolf was spotted in the Tully maiden's chambers. They are to be wed, so her maidenhead is his in any case, but still – Lysa can't imagine Father would approve. Perhaps part of her wants to see it happen just for that, but she doesn't like that part of herself. “You're in the East Wing, third on the left. Come, I'll show you.”  
  
He grins again.  
  


* * *

  
They make a little smalltalk on their way, not about anything terribly important, mostly about the heat of Riverrun and the chill of the North. He regales her with tales of giants and direwolves prowling in the forests outside Winterfell, making her laugh and gasp even though she's sure he's making it all up. Every time she says something there is that lingering fear that she will get it wrong somehow, that she will make a fool of herself, but he never looks like she has. She starts to feel strangely comfortable with this man, this virtual stranger, and a pang of guilt or envy stabs her heart.  _He is Cat's. Of course he is. Everything is always Cat's._  
  
She's faintly disappointed that their walk is so short. She stops, and he gives her that smile, that one that sets her heart aflutter. “So, here we are,” she says. “Your chambers.”  
  
“Hmm,” he says. “See the thing is, now I'm here I don't actually feel all that tired. Your rousing conversation, I suppose.” She tries to find a reply to that, but instead she just breaks into giggles. Damn it. “You know what, how about you come sit with me and talk awhile. Help me get off to sleep."  
  
Lysa blinks, and then hesitates. “I–” she wants to, wants to spend more time with this wild, but charming man she's starting to feel like might understand her, but... “are you sure – Cat?”  
  
“I'm sure she won't mind,” Brandon says. “You are to be my sister by law, after all. I should get to know you like a sister.”  
  
 _But I am not your sister, and I do not think it a good idea to spend the night in your bedchambers. People might talk._  But then again, she and Cat both have spent the night in Petyr's chambers a thousand times over without much trouble, and so is this so different? She won't spend the whole night. Just a few minutes, just to talk a little more. No-one will even notice she was gone.  
  
That smile, that smile could make her do anything. And so Lysa smiles back, and follows when Brandon opens the door for her, uncomfortably seating herself on the foot of his beat. The blankets are all strewn about in a total mess, but that's probably because of the heat.  
  
He shuts the door and she jumps a little. “My apologies, Lady Tully,” he says. “I didn't mean to startle you.”  
  
 _Lady Tully._  It sounds so strong, so rich, so pure in his gruff northern voice.  _Would 'Lady Stark' sound the same?_  “It's quite alright,” she says. _You can scare me as much as you like if you'll call me that after._  
  
A flush rises to her cheeks. She is getting carried away, she knows she is – he is her sister's betrothed, and his only interest in her is as a sister. She ought to remember herself. He chuckles as he walks over to sit by her side, making her stomach twist and her spine stiffen. “Do I make you nervous, my lady?”  
  
She blushes deeper. “Only a little,” she mutters, and he frowns. “Sorry. It's not your fault. It's just – I'm not really used to men paying me attention. To anyone paying me attention.” She tries not to pout when she says it, but it really can't be helped. “Especially not a – young man – such as yourself.”  
  
A pause, and then Brandon chuckles. “Such as myself. Well, if you don't mind my doing so, I might take that as a compliment.” Lysa bites her lip. It  _is_  a compliment – he is brave, he is dashing, he is handsome, but she is too afraid to say that aloud, too afraid of what it might say about her if she did. He is everything Cat deserves. “Still, I find that hard to believe. I know in the North you'd be beating men off with a stick.”  
  
“I had no idea you Northerners had such adventurous tastes,” falls out of her mouth, a tiny, dirty joke, and she immediately finds her throat thickening with dread because oh, what a stupid thing to say, it's the sort of thing Petyr would say, but Petyr can get away with it because he is small and cheeky and damn near lowborn, but her, oh no,  _he'll think me a slattern–_  
  
But then he just  _laughs_ , wild and strong, like he cannot help it, and Lysa feels the weight lift from her shoulders. “My lady,” he says, still wheezing a little. “It is a damn crime you have gone unappreciated for so long.”  
  
Part of her is saying she should be wary, that this is too much, too good to be true, but that part of her is silenced by the sight of that grin. “Well, I would like to think so, but then again I might not be the most impartial judge in the matter.” This is not like her, she is always the type to bite back her japes for fear no-one will laugh, but he is laughing, and she wishes he could never stop.  
  
“I, on the other hand, have no vested interest whatsoever,” he says, which Lysa can't be sure is entirely true. “And in truth, I was stunned to see you sitting alone tonight. You looked so beautiful. I know I should not say this, but – you looked more beautiful than she did.”  
  
Lysa's mouth hangs open, gawping like a river trout. Fitting. “I – thank you, my lord, but–”  
  
“Don't thank me. It is the truth, and I can't bear liars.”  
  
Her head spins. She wants to believe him, that's the thing – she wants to believe there is one man, one person in all the Seven Kingdoms, who might want her more than Cat.  _But he is Cat's, hers to wed, hers to bed, hers to love._  But wouldn't that be the way? The only man to choose the second daughter, less loved and less lovely, would be the one who'd already had the first chosen for him. It sounds like a song.  
  
“I think, the men here, don't really know you. No-one really knows you,” he carries on, and Lysa thinks that no-one has ever summed her up so briefly. “Everyone adores your sister and thinks you a spare copy, and an inferior copy. Idiots. I saw you, across the room I saw you and I could see – don't get me wrong, Cat is a sweet girl, I'm fond of her. But she's all honour and duty, more wife than woman, and I can't help but imagine, in bed she'd just lie there like a dead fish.” Lysa feels like she should speak up for her sister's honour, but her voice has been stolen from her, and isn't it Cat's honour that's the problem? “But you... there's blood in your veins, not river water. There is something wild in you.”  
  
Lysa cannot breathe. “Yes,” she squeaks, and only then does she realise how close to her he has gotten, reaching beneath her chin to tilt her face up, their lips almost touching.  
  
“See, I could scent you,” he says, bewildering her. “It's the wolfblood. I can always tell a woman just like me.”  
  
Her head is spinning. “K-kiss me,” she begs.  
  
He chuckles again, and seals his mouth over hers.  
  
It's not a chaste kiss; his tongue tells her to part her lips for him and she does, allowing him to plunder her mouth as he seizes her by the hips, pulls her body tight against his until she can feel her bosom squashed against the hard plain of his chest. She grabs at his shoulders, not sure what should do with her hands.  _This is wrong, he is Cat's,_  she thinks, but really, why, because Father said? It's her Brandon wants, not Cat. He is the only man across the Seven Kingdoms for whom that is true. They are the same, her and Brandon, wild and reckless in a way Cat could never be. Surely Cat would understand?  _No she wouldn't, she knows nothing of passion,_  but that thought only spurs Lysa on.  
  
She moans as his strong paw moves up across her chest, cupping one of her breasts – never as big as Cat's, which are frankly just ludicrous and will probably sag when she's older, but a decent size – and rubbing a nipple through her velvet gown with a rough, calloused thumb. She gasps, squirms. “Easy, Lady Lysa,” he chuckles.  _What happened to Lady Tully?_  “I promise I'll take care of you.”  
  
“I'm not afraid,” she says, which is only half a lie.  
  
“Brave girl,” he says, and then pushes her onto her back.  
  
Lysa yelps a little in surprise, and then bites her tongue, suddenly aware of what it would do to her – and to Cat – if they got caught. She almost thinks better of this whole thing then, but then Brandon is kneeling between her legs, grinning that wild grin at her, and oh, she'd do anything. Her legs spread wider just looking at him, wanton as a whore, and for once she does not care.  
  
“Brandon,” she gasps as he pushes her skirts up, starts to pull her underthings off. “I–”  
  
“It's alright, my lady. Just try and keep your voice down?”  
  
She remembers herself and bites her lip, nodding. “Good girl,” he chuckles as he pulls her underthings all the way down to her ankles, and when he does he suddenly slides his index finger straight inside her, making her arch off the bed and draw blood from her lip to keep from yelping.  
  
“You like that?” he asks as he starts to wriggle his finger back and forth, darting down for another disappointingly quick kiss, licking the blood away. In truth, Lysa feels more overwhelmed than anything, still in shock and not having processed whether it feels good or not, but she nods anyway.  
  
When he pulls it away, she still cannot tell whether to be disappointed. But then he straightens up on his knees, starts to unlace his breeches and then his own smallclothes, and Lysa can only wait, blushing at the thought of what she must look like, on her back with her legs spread in her sister's betrothed's chambers, awaiting his cock.  
  
Once he finally pulls it out, she can't help but stare. She's not seen one in years, not since she was a child, playing silly show-you-mine-show-me-yours games with Petyr. She's never seen one like that before, all hard and swollen and red, ready. It's not attractive, really, it's probably the least handsome part of his body she's seen so far, but it's still somehow – enticing. Bold. He  _wants_  her, that much is plain to see, and his hard cock announces it proudly. Lysa bites her lip and squirms a little at the thought.  
  
He chuckles again at the look on her face. “You can touch it if you like.”  
  
She look up and catches his eye.  _Is that what he wants me to do?_  Hesitantly, reaches up, running her fingernails along the length of him. She really doesn't know what she's meant to do here.  
  
He groans, thrusting slightly towards her. “That's it, love,” he says, his strong, square hand finding hers and guiding her, making her wrap her fingers around his girth. Shyly, she starts to stroke.  _I can pleasure him. Cat would never._  
  
Before long her pushes her hand away again, making her frown with worry.  _Have I done something wrong?_  But he smiles as he takes ahold of her thighs, spreading her legs wider and lining himself up with her slit. She holds her breath as he looks her in the eye. “Do you want me to, my lady?”  
  
A dozen things flash in front of her, telling her why she shouldn't – her father's disappointment, Catelyn's look of betrayal, the threat of a bastard – but none of it means anything compared to the way he grins at her. She nods, and he chuckles as he starts to push into her.  
  
 _Ow!_  
  
She winces and bites her lip as his cock sinks inside, surprised by how much it hurts. Her septa warned her it likely would on her wedding night, but Lysa has secretly, guiltily tried filling herself with her fingers before – and that was fine. But Brandon is thicker, and he either doesn't notice or doesn't mind, slowly burying himself down to the root. Once he's fully in Lysa can't help but let out a cry of pain. She doesn't want to worry him, but he just chuckles, stroking her hair reassuringly.  
  
“Don't worry, my lady,” he says. “I get that from all the girls.”  
  
Lysa can feel her maidenblood spilling onto his sheets, and she winces. She doesn't want to think about him doing this with other girls – especially not Cat. But Cat would never. “Brandon, it hurts,” she moans.  
  
He kisses her lips gently, distracting her. “It'll get better.”  
  
She moans again as he starts to thrust in and out, but gently, giving her some time to adjust. The pain does abate after awhile, and she finds some pleasure in it, but it still doesn't feel quite right – not as good as when she did it to herself. She squirms underneath him, knowing she wants something more, something to make it better for her, but she doesn't know what.  
  
“That's my girl,” Brandon whispers in her ear as he quickens his pace, making the pain stab as sharp as ever.  _He'll split me open with his sword_ , thinks Lysa, half-hysterical. He's groaning and burying his face in her hair, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside her, and Lysa wonders – “Oh,  _Cat_.”  
  
He moans and comes to a stop, and Lysa can feel his seed spurting out of him just as tears spring to her eyes. Cat. It all makes such perfect sense now, and it feels like she's been punched in the belly, all the air knocked out of her – and she realises how stupid she's been. Cat would never, not before her wedding night, not even with the man she'll give her maidenhead to anyway – so Brandon had to tide himself over in the meantime. He just happened to find the next best thing, a girl who looks just like his betrothed, almost as pretty, but not smart enough to realise when she's being taken advantage of.  
  
 _Bastard_ , thinks Lysa, wanting to hold on to anger at him for doing this to her, and not let shame soak through. It doesn't work.  _But I'm the stupid slut who let him do it_. After all, it's not like she didn't know he was a womaniser. The wild wolf indeed. Why would she think she was anything special? When is she ever special? And now she is ruined; if anyone finds out, no man will ever marry her. Who wants their goodbrother's leftovers? What will her father say?  
  
As soon as Brandon rolls off her she hurriedly sits up, pulling down her dress, trying desperately to hide the tears now rolling down her face. “I should go.”  
  
Part of her wishes he'll try and stop her, tell her she misunderstood, or at least apologise – but he doesn't. “Right you are. Don't want your father catching you here,” he says. “Alas, he only agreed to give me one of his girls.”  
  
Lysa storms out, and as soon as she's in the corridor she bursts into sobs, so hard she thinks she'll shake the whole castle down. She hurts so much she wants to run to someone, to be comforted, and of course her instinct is to go to Cat – to be held in that way only Cat can, as much a mother as a sister, and to be made to feel like everything will be alright.  
  
But how can she tell Cat this? She fucked Cat's future husband. Cat wouldn't hold her and comfort her. She'd scream and slap her and ask how Lysa could do such a thing to her. How  _could_  Lysa do such a thing to her?  
  
Can she talk to anyone else? Edmure is just a child, and he would never understand why she needs to keep this secret. Her father is out of the question. Even Uncle Brynden – he loves her well, but still, not quite as much as he loves Cat. He wouldn't betray her trust, but she can't bear the thought of him knowing there is one more way in which Cat is perfect and she isn't.  
  
In the end, there is only one person she can possibly go to. She all but runs to the other side of the castle, tripping over her dress at least twice, but eventually she makes it. “Petyr?” she asks as she knocks loudly, desperately. “Petyr, could you let me in? It's me, Lysa.”  
  
She can tell how needy, how pathetic she sounds. Still, silence.  _He's probably asleep_ , Lysa reminds herself, but no, he can't be. Recklessly, she pushes the door, and to her surprise she finds it unlocked.  
  
Lysa sneaks inside and sees Petyr laid out on the bed, having fallen asleep fully clothed. He looks very sweet like that. She closes the door behind herself as quietly as she can, but still, the noise makes him stir, and then she can't stop the words falling out her mouth: “Petyr, are you awake? Oh, something terrible's happened. I've done something really stupid. I can't talk to anyone else, but please, don't be mad – just listen.”  
  
She sits down next to him on the bed, and after a second, his eyes pop open. He smiles. “You're here,” he whispers, like he can't believe it.  
  
Lysa's heart leaps in her chest.  _He knows me_. Petyr always stares after Catelyn with such pain, but that smile is just for her. Like that, the hurt Brandon caused her seems to just disappear. With some braveness or madness that lurks within her, she leans down and presses her lips to his.  
  
Petyr seems surprised, but he doesn't try and stop her; no he parts his lips and encourages her to go further, which she does. Lysa lets herself go from the whole thing. Brandon needn't be anything to her, no more than she is anything to him; she can lose her maidenhead all over again, if not with her lord husband as she should, with a boy who knows her and cares for her.  
  
She is nothing like Brandon, she decides. Cat is welcome to him. She may have thought she was wild at heart, but she can also be kind and thoughtful – even if she makes mistakes. Brandon is just greedy and selfish. She doesn't belong with a man like him, she belongs with a man like Petyr, funny and sweet and not special to anyone but her. Their hearts are the same, and she feels as if she is wedding herself to him, binding them together until the day she dies.


End file.
